


Dropped

by olndina



Category: Agents of SHIELD - Fandom, Captain America, MCU, The Avengers
Genre: Asexual Natasha, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, Gen, M/M, Multi, Platonic Life Partners, Recovery, Soul Bond, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 06:17:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4949866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olndina/pseuds/olndina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve went into the ice a Blank.  Now, though, there's a red star on his left arm, and he must adjust to a future where he has a soul mate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Steve stood in front of the bar's bathroom mirror. He should have been pissed because he had gotten into a bar fight in Hell's Kitchen not even forty-eight hours after waking up in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s so-called recovery room, but self-loathing was not what kept him rooted to the spot. Nor was it the blood dripping down his left arm, although the color red definitely played its role. Maybe he should have felt stupid for not noticing the Mark before, but Steve--never one to spend time staring at his body in a mirror before Dr. Erskine walked into his life--had no reason to examine what science afforded him now. Before the ice, Steve had been a Blank, no soul mark on his pre- or post-serum body. For the most part, Steve had come to terms with his status; it was just one more thing (asthma, scoliosis, bum heart, etc) to set him apart from his peers and potential dating partners. He hadn't needed anyone else because he'd had -

A minute throb alerted Steve to the facts that a) he had clenched his fists as though he were about to punch the mirror, and b) the wound had healed around a tiny shard of glass he'd neglected to clean out. It was a bitch to remove the glass now, but Steve found himself welcoming the distraction of cutting open the wound one more time. Fury, at least, either had the decency not to mention the bandage or lacked the empathy to give a fuck a few days later in a boxing gym, just lifted his eyebrow before dropping gods and the Tesseract into Steve's life. Steve did not tug his shirt sleeve back over the pristine bandage as he hefted the sandbag, but it was a near thing.

Agent Coulson was a different matter.

* * *

Somewhere in his "I was there while you were sleeping" and "I had a hand in the redesign for the suit," Coulson had let his eyes linger at Steve's shoulder three too many times until Steve found himself whispering, "Was it there when you...when I was sleeping?"

Coulson's eyes snapped up to meet Steve's, his voice soft and his eyes devoid of embarrassment as he answered. "Yes." When Steve didn't immediately continue talking, Coulson ducked his head and ran a hand across his neck before asking in a rush, "Were the history books wrong? Or, to keep your mate safe, you didn't - "

"No. I'm - I _was_ a Blank."

"So was I. I mean. I am. A Blank. Is me. And, god, please let me just shut up now before embarrassment kills me."

"Agent Coulson - "

"Phil."

"Phil, you don't have anything to be embarrassed about."

"I appreciate your saying that, Captain."

"Please, it's Steve."

Coulson, _Phil_ made a noncommittal noise, and, save for the pilot talking over the comms, there's only silence passing between the two men for a few minutes until Phil spoke again, his voice strong.

"You can ask me, Steve."

"I'm sorry?" Phil didn't repeat his question, but turned his hand palm-side up to give Steve an unobstructed view of the tattoo on the inside of his wrist. "Oh, I didn't want to be rude."

The other man's laugh was a huff of air, and Steve decided then that he liked this man of S.H.I.E.L.D. a lot. "I don't think there's any possible way for you to beat 'I watched you sleeping,' you know."

"Well, when you put it that way..." They smiled at each other.

"Just a tattoo. Well, I say 'just,' but it's really not." He pointed to the purple target. "Clint. He's my eyes in the sky, the voice in my ear, the warmth in my bed, my everything." He moved to the black spider with the red hour glass in its abdomen. "Natasha, Clint's soulmate, and our anchor." He rubbed his thumb over the tattoo one more time before dropping both hands.

"And the quill, that's you."

"Yes, their little joke." Humor and fondness tinged his voice and wrinkled his eyes. "'The pen is mightier than the sword' and all that."

Steve nodded his head in understanding of the joke, even if the nuances of Coulson's relationship escaped him. It didn't matter though because it wasn't his business. He returned to his studying of the files, or at least, he opened them back up and managed to turn the pages every minute or so. Phil, who had to know that Steve was faking, didn't say anything until just after the pilot gave the warning that they were making their approach to the carrier.

"Thank you."

Steve closed the file and handed it back to the other man. "For what?"

"Well, for being Captain America--no, wait, hear me out--for being Captain America, yes, but for mostly being Steve Rogers, a Blank who didn't let that define you."

Steve sucked in a breath, wanting to say _I wasn't just Steve Rogers. I was Bucky Barnes's best friend, and it didn't matter that he was a Blank or that I was a Blank, because we were Bucky and Steve, and no Mark on my arm now is going to take that away._ Instead, he held his hand out for Phil to shake, and said, "I...you're welcome."

* * *

Helping Romanov hold Barton up outside of the shawarma hut after Steve told them of Phil's death was the least Steve could do when he felt like he'd failed them so, so much. His own tears threatened to spill after he caught sight of the Mark and tattoos on Romanov's neck. She said nothing, but the look she sent his way before cutting to where the red star lay hidden was message enough.

Steve wasn't ready, though, and he was content if readiness never came.


	2. Chapter 2

Watching Romanov and Barton drive off together in the opposite direction from the way Steve was heading on his newly-acquired motorcycle shouldn't have felt as much like a relief as it did. Oh, the guilt was still there, because Steve should have made the sacrifice play, should have been the one who goaded Loki into taking him out. The guilt though was not what kept him checking his side-view mirrors every few seconds, just in case. No, Steve just couldn't handle anymore encounters with Romanov like the one he'd had the previous night.

"You're an idiot, Rogers."

Steve'd merely stilled for a moment before continuing to dry his hair with the towel. "You do realize that this is the men's locker room, yes?"

"Don't be so heteronormative." She'd slouched against the counter, her back to the mirror. "It's not as though I came here to check out your Johnson."

"My Johnson?"

"Yeah, isn't that what you old-timers called it? Your dong? Trouser snake? Your - "

"My penis! I get it!" Even as Steve winced at the volume at which he'd announced their topic of conversation in a not-entirely-empty locker room, Romanov smirked and he realized that he'd walked straight into that one. He sighed, turned on his heel, and walked to his open duffel bag and clean clothes. He pulled a new pair of boxer briefs out of the opened five-pack, and then shimmied into them with his towel still wrapped around his waist. He'd turned back to face the spy, and managed to keep from rolling eyes at the direction her gaze was focused. "You know, for someone who's not interested in my, uh, twig and berries," he doesn't acknowledge her snort, "you've thought an awful lot about what you're going to call it. Might give a fella the wrong idea about things."

"See above re: you're an idiot, Rogers." She'd crossed to him, not looking as she reached down and dug his shirt out of his bag before handing it to him.

"Thanks. And it's been said before, be said again. How'd you figure?"

"That Mark you keep covered in bandages. You know, there's an awful lot of wounds that could be covered in the gauze you keep - "

"Drop it, Romanov."

"What's the hold-up? Isn't that the big Blank dream? To wake up with a Mark? Why aren't you out looking for your mate? With S.H.I.E.L.D.'s access to all the databases, it'd be fairly easy to find out whose Mark you bear." Steve, who'd finished dressing during her speech, picked up his bag and dirty towels and stepped around her towards the exit. "It doesn't matter what you were in the '40s, Steve."

She'd been on his heels. In a few months, Steve will delight in those rare moments when he and Clint can catch Nat off her guard, when she's less than graceful, but right then, he barely registered her weight as he stopped in his tracks and she'd bumped into him. The flinch on her face as he whirled around, dropped his bag, and then grabbed her arms was not nearly as satisfying as Steve'd liked. He'd walked her backwards until her back touched the bank of lockers, recognized the sound of the locker room's other occupant scurrying to leave the area as quickly as possible. If Steve gave any fucks about gossip mongers, he'd've been concerned about the story of Captain America attempting to murder the Black Widow in the men's locker room, but the last fuck he'd given was still at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean.

"What I was in the '40s? You mean a Blank? Or maybe that kid from Brooklyn who was too dumb to give up on serving my country when Bu - " There was a flash of something like triumph in her eyes, and Steve released her arms, stepped back. "I understand now."

"You do, huh?" God, but the woman could smirk. The locker door opened then, and the change on the woman's face was comical in its transparency. "You're supposed to be sleeping."

Steve hadn't needed to turn around to see that Barton had joined them. Sarah Rogers always said she could tell from halfway across the city when that fool soul mate of hers was doing something he shouldn't have been doing, and Steve had seen the same look of guilt (and abject terror, not many survived a tongue-lashing from Steve's ma and lived to tell the tale) cross Joseph Rogers's face on more than one occasion. "And you're supposed to be leaving the good captain alone."

"I know. I lied. You knew I lied."

"Yeah, but didn't stop me hoping. We agreed, Nat. The Mark is his business."

"Not according to S.H.I.E.L.D. and the World Security Council." She'd pointed at Steve's arm. "That Mark is worth much more than Rogers's business. It's leverage against him, against S.H.I.E.L.D., hell Clint, against the world. If he - "

" _He_ is standing right here and _he_ doesn't appreciate you talking about him like he's a simpleton." The two soul mates hadn't turned to look at him, but Steve had at least made his point; neither agent said anything more. "Look. I'm going to hit the rack. Barton, again, I'm sorry for your loss. Agent Coulson - "

"He told you to call him Phil." Romanov's voice had been just shy of petulant, but only barely.

"Phil was a great man, and I'm glad I had the chance to meet him." Barton'd taken his proffered hand, and the two men nodded in farewell.

They'd hurt, the words Romanov had said to him. To say that the man he'd been in 1945 didn't matter meant that that man--the one who'd been in love with his best friend, who'd gone into hell to save him--had no merit. And, looking into Clint Barton's eyes, Steve knew that the archer had felt about his agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. exactly how Steve felt about Bucky. It mattered; they mattered. The red-rimmed eyes, drawn face, and grief-wracked voice had been a mirror of Steve when Bucky had died.

Steve'd had his first mate-dream after that confrontation in the locker room, sure that it was Natasha Romanov's fault. It had been cold, true, as all of his dreams since waking up had been, but instead of the frozen blackness of the ice, this had been a blue-frosted lightness, crystallized around the edges. And the hand reaching out had not been his own. Because Steve's middle name might as well have been Guilt instead of Grant, there was a part of him that felt he'd needed to search for his mate, especially because his mate might've been searching for him, maybe needed him.

That part of Steve was small and easily drowned out by a howling ache, and maybe the dreams would stop.

When Fury had offered a cabin in the woods well off the beaten path and away from prying eyes, Steve, a city boy through and through, had first turned him down. Then, Dr. Banner had mentioned he'd stayed there for a brief stint following the time he "broke Harlem."

"You'll like it, Captain Rogers. There are trails all over the place, perfect for running, and there's no one around to bother you if you need to yell."

"Yell?"

"You know, yell. At the quiet, at the noise, at whatever it is that needs yelling at." 

It was the small shrug and sardonic grin that made Steve understand. So, armed with saddlebags full of clothes and sketch supplies, as well as a smart phone ("Please, it's a Starkphone, Grandpappy, might as well call it a genius phone. Though, my name attached to it, same thing, when you think about it.") programmed with the coordinates, the man with a plan set off for the place where he could yell at whatever it was that needed yelling.

* * *

The dreams didn't stop.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: I took out the last sentence of the original post because I set the next chapter's events for the next day.

**mornin cap**

Steve checked the time before replying. **Morning? It's fifteen hundred hours, Barton. Where the hell are you?**

**... burbank... :]**

Steve tilted his head back and laughed. **Oh, well, totally morning then... I forgot about that new-fangled time change you kids are using these days.**

**lots changed while you were sleep cap**

**Lots changed while YOU were asleep, Barton.**

**suck it cap**

Steve snorted again. He'd never have said it a month ago, but these messages from contact 'caw, caw motherfucker' were the best part of his day. He could bullshit in between runs, sketches, and books, and for those five or so minutes he had an outlet, could talk about the mate dreams. Which was why that morning, rather than put his phone down to pick up his pencil and sketchpad, he settled on the couch, and waited for Clint's inevitable 'howd ya sleep.'

Only, the question never came.

Now, Steve was not a patient man, but he liked to live under the delusion that he was. After about ten minutes of looking at his phone, willing the screen to light up with a notification, his leg jostling up and down--in something other than impatience, despite all outward appearances--he fired off another text. **Well?**

**uhhhh yeah?**

**Aren't you going to ask me?**

**gonna have to elaborate there cp. dont no wat ur talkn about**

Steve stared at the text window, the ellipsis indicating that Clint was typing _something_ before disappearing altogether. He set the phone down, staring at it before the screen darkened and finally locked.

It was, of course, possible that Clint simply no longer gave a damn, but knowing the kind of man Phil was, however short a time that might have been him, and the kind of man Clint seemed to be, Steve doubted that Clint woke up that morning no longer caring about Steve's well-being. **WTF, Barton, you haven't asked about my dreams.**

The archer never replied. Instead, some hours later, it was a confused and frustrated Steve Rogers who answered the phone when a call came in from 'red headed woman.' "Romanov?"

"Really? After all this time, I'm still just Romanov? Why does Clint get the courtesy, but I don't? Ouch, Captain."

"Clint didn't trick me into admitting that Bucky Barnes was the love of my goddam life, Mark or no."

"Ooh, progress, Cap, I'm impressed that you admitted all of that out loud. You still wearing dressings to keep your...Oh, never mind. Sharp inhales through the nose kind of give you away, you know. Might want to work on that for your next poker game."

"Where's Clint?"

"The range."

"Well, shit. Wait, has he - "

"No."

Truly, though, Steve had known what the answer would be, and if Clint was already back on the range after less than seventy-two hours after his last episode, then it was no wonder he'd had no time for Steve and his dreams of blue-tinged ice crystals covering a darkened window or mirror.

A month, since Phil, since Loki, and Clint still hadn't fired an arrow.

Steve sat down; if he was able to go weak at the knees, he'd say that's what brought him down, but, no, there was strength enough in his legs even if his heart hurt for his new friend.

"Captain, I'm..." There it was, a vulnerability in Romanov's voice that Clint had assured him only came out for Clint himself now that Phil was gone. Steve's spine straightened.

"You're scared."

"No."

"Then what?" Steve drew his hand through his hair, gripping the ends slightly. "What is it? What do you want me to do?"

"I don't know! I'm lost, Rogers, and I have no clue what I'm supposed to do. Some fucking anchor I am, his soul mate."

Steve sighed, aware that Romanov could no doubt read a myriad of things into the action, but before she could tell him what he had for breakfast based on the length of his exhale, he said, "Send me the coordinates. I'm on my way."

"Captain, I don't, I mean... Thank you."

"You're welcome. Natasha." The laugh she huffed out filled Steve with the satisfaction that, at least for a moment, he could give her a little joy.

* * *

Natasha did better than coordinates, and not a half hour later, Steve found himself riding in a S.H.I.E.L.D. quinjet en route to Burbank. Not knowing when he'd be able to hit the rack later that night, Steve leaned back into his seat, closed his eyes, and was asleep before they'd even taken off.

* * *

Steve leaned against the doorjamb of the arms range later that evening, fairly rested despite the mate dream (they were becoming worse, he knew they were, but Clint was more important right now) that had him shivering awake just before the 'jet touched down. At least, compared to Clint, Steve looked as fresh a a daisy.

Several bottles of water, some empty, and a couple protein bar wrappers littered the table behind archer. _Better than nothing._ And that was about as good as Steve could hope for. The man stood barefoot, his loose washed-grey sweatpants barely hanging onto his hips, and the muscle shirt, originally a lilac, was sweat-tacky and darker in some places than others. His stance was as taut as the bowstring he held drawn. At least a week's worth of beard covered his face.

Not a hint of shaking or wavering betrayed the true toll of the draw on Clint's muscles, but there was a huskiness to his voice that spoke the truth. "Sold me out, huh?"

"Worried about you, Clint. We both are." Steve pushed further into the room, dropping his bags as he stepped closer. Clint grunted.

"You two are ridiculous. I'm fine."

"So take the shot, Specialist." A tightened jaw was the only acknowledgement as several long minutes passed. "Go on, Barton, and impress me."

"You're a bastard."

"Sarah Rogers was a good Catholic girl and would have boxed your ears for insinuating otherwise."

"Still a bastard."

"Yeah, well, you're probably right about that, but I'm at least right about this." Steve stepped closer to Clint. "Phil - " Clint whimpered this time, and Steve completed his journey into the other man's space, placing one hand between Clint's shoulder blades and the other on his bow arm. "Phil would tell you to lay down arms. No one needs you to take the shot." A trembling beneath Steve's hands began, running throughout Clint's body.

"Yes, I do, Captain. I'm Hawkeye. It's what I do."

"You're Clinton Francis Barton, not what you do."

"I don't know who that is."

"That's okay. I do."

"You do?"

"Of course. You're my friend. You're Natasha's soulmate. You're Phil's eyes in the sky and voice in his ear." Not all of it, but some of the tension Clint was holding began to ease, the arrow dropping a couple of inches.

"Who's going to listen to me now?"

"Well, I'm here, aren't I? Not going anywhere until you tell me to."

"You're with me?"

And it just slipped out, something Bucky once said to him, the most important thing he said to him, but there's no pain eating away at his chest when he said, "Till the end of the line."

"Good. That's good, because you're going to have to carry me."

Steve caught the shorter man as weakness took his knees. The weapon fell to the ground. The super soldier turned toward the range's exit, unsurprised to find Natasha waiting just outside with his duffel bag. Without a word, he followed her to Clint's quarters and helped her arrange the unconscious bowman in his bed. He was about to leave, to make himself a pallet in the living room when Natasha spoke. "He'll do better in the middle." So Steve found himself with Clint Barton's head resting on his shoulder and Natasha Romanov's perfume filling his nostrils.

* * *

That night, he dreamt of back alley Brooklyn brawls and swing music.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter's original posting, I had Steve waking up all warm and post-cuddles and stuff, but I took that out for the purposes of this chapter's events.
> 
> Still no editor.
> 
> I've also added to the number of chapters because I realized that I had more world-building to do before I could skip to TWS events.

Grabbing the shield might have been a little overkill, but when shouting from the living room wakes you at the ass crack of the afternoon from the first real sleep you've had in--well, the math on that was hard if you answer to Steve Rogers--grabbing the weapon that was as much an extension of his arm as a tool could be seemed perfectly fucking reasonable. Of course, none of that kept Steve from feeling like a complete jackass when he entered the living room to find Natasha sitting on the couch in nothing but the t-shirt she slept in, filing her nails, and Clint apparently well on his way in becoming a living representation of a human pretzel. [ He was balanced on his right arm, right leg crossed over his left leg, which he'd grabbed the toes of with his left arm _around_ his right arm](http://yogi-foodie-nudie.tumblr.com/post/90950939029). It looked both painful and strangely tranquil.

"Nat, I swear to to God, you take that right fucking back right fucking now!”

So, maybe he was a living, obscenities-spewing representation of a human pretzel.

She didn't look up from her task, but her voice was filled with the same disdain Steve had come to expect when she thought Clint was being a moron. "No, seriously, what is the big damn deal? The Gungans are an integral part of the plot for Episode I. Honestly, how else would - "

"Are you actually listening to yourself? 'The Gungans are an _integral_ part - "

"They are. Tactically, without the Gungans, Amidala and the Jedi would never have been able to infiltrate the palace. Then where would they be? Still blockaded, that's for damn sure."

Clint untangled himself from his position to stand to his full (oh, God, naked!) height, hands planted on his hips. "Woman, if I could trade in on soul mates, I would! My god, if Phil,” Steve tensed at the mention of Phil's name, ready for the fall-out, but Clint kept going, "were here, he'd yank you up by the scruff of your neck and force you to watch the original trilogy until you stopped being so damn Gungan-ho about the fucking prequels!"

That, apparently, was what Natasha deemed important enough to stop her nail care routine. After setting her nail file aside, she crossed her arms beneath her breasts. Steve got a good long look at the night shirt she was wearing then: the ugliest, goofiest looking creature with the longest tongue sticking out and the caption, "Ooh, mooey mooey I love you!" inside of a heart. "Okay, two things, brother-mine. One. Yoga is supposed to help you relax and meditate; screaming at me seems counter-productive. Two. _Force_ me, Clint, really?"

For a long time, neither said anything, but then Clint dissolved into laughter, doubling over, while Natasha's mouth actually ticked up into a smile. Steve, who had not moved since crashing into the living room, set the shield aside until the next time the world ended. Still, he had no idea what the actual hell it was they were discussing. The looks they shot at him were the best possible combination of amused and horrified, and thirty minutes later, Steve found himself piled onto the couch with a freshly-showered-and-boxer-briefed Clint on one side, and a still-filing-and-buffing-her-nails Natasha on the other, and the biggest bowl of popcorn on his lap. After a vicious game of rock-paper-scissors, Clint had dictated that they would watch the movies “as God intended” and start with Episode IV, de-specialized and stripped down, “Just like my first recurve, no extra bells or whistles, just the beauty of the shot.”

“Speaking of shots, Greedo - ”

“No, he didn’t, now shut the fuck up, Nat, because Steve is a virgin and if you ruin this, I will quite possibly _kill_ you!”

Thankfully, Steve was saved from having to deal with both his embarrassment at the virgin comment and the inevitable fight that was about to ensue because Clint was shushing both of them…as in, he clapped one hand over Steve’s mouth and leaned over him, bare chests now rubbing across each other, and slapped the other hand over Natasha's mouth. Of course, “saved” wouldn’t be the correct term to use as Steve suddenly had the expanse of Clint’s shoulders spread over him, and even though Clint had slept with his head on the same pillow as Steve’s last night AND Steve had seen the man completely naked not even forty-five minutes ago, the clean citrus musk of Clint lanced arousal through Steve so suddenly that his nostrils had flared and his eyes had shut in an effort to escape the sudden onslaught of want.

Oh, Steve was in too deep and that was not okay. Clint was in mourning, and shit, so was Steve for that matter; something had to give.

“Oh, shit, sorry, Captain, I’m blocking your view.”

To Steve’s disappointed relief (or was it relieved disappointment?), Clint moved off his chest and back to his side of the couch. Steve opened his eyes in enough time to read “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…” right before there was a crash of trumpets and Steve suddenly felt the urge to take up his shield and do something patriotically heroic, muscles tensed and ready to leap into action. Then, Natasha stuck her ice cold feet under his bare thigh and Steve nearly startled out of the couch. He glared at her.

“Relax, Cap, it happens to everyone the first time they hear the fanfare. It’ll pass.” Steve might have believed her if it weren’t for the fact that the realization of the popcorn bowl was absolutely ill-placed when Clint reached into the bowl _that was right over Steve’s dick_ and rooted out a handful of popcorn. Clint’s need for starchy-snacky goodness meant that Steve’s arousal, almost dowsed by Natasha’s icepick toes, was back in full force. And, shit, he’d love to move the damn bowl to the coffee table, but then, well, there’s his Johnson in nought but his boxer briefs.

He acknowledged neither the facts that Natasha would count it a victory that he called it is Johnson, nor that her reaching into the bowl elicited nothing like the same reaction.

He spent the first minutes of the movie more or less condemning his erection to get its ass back to the ‘40s, and then the man who’d punched out Hitler over 300 times got his first look at Darth Vader, and, well, Steven Grant Rogers never did like bullies, especially ones who stick their fingers in a dame’s face to intimidate her. He needed someone to sign him up for the Rebel Alliance and yesterday.

The movie narrowed Steve’s focus to its story, and Steve forgot for awhile that he wasn’t alone until Natasha handed him a tissue while Luke stood outside his home to watch the twin suns set. He was there with Luke, hell, had been Luke. The tissue confused him, but then he’d realized that he was crying. He grinned at her and wiped his eyes. When Luke returned to his home to find his aunt and uncle murdered, it was Clint who moved the bowl of popcorn to the floor so that he and Nat could both take Steve’s hands, and he had one half of a Completed pair resting her head on his shoulder, and the other half scratching his own balls, both while watching Luke Skywalker pledge himself to the Force and the Jedi. Not bad for a Blank kid from Brooklyn, all told.

Former Blank, anyway.

“Mos Eisley Spaceport: you will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious.” Steve had expected Nat to stop Clint from saying the lines with the actors, but Nat had gone completely still, and the grip she had on Steve’s hand was tight. Steve was about to ask her what the matter was, when Clint also went fight-or-flight still for about three seconds before he bolted from the living room. Super soldier hearing yielded up the sounds of retching from the bathroom, and Steve was launching into protector mode, already pushing up from the couch before Nat pulled him back down, shaking her head at him. And, well, Nat was Clint’s soul mate, so Steve had no choice but to follow her lead in this.

“Fucking Jedi mind trick.” She reached over and muted the volume, killing the band of aliens playing in a seedy-looking bar.

“Mind trick, huh? Well, that’s just great.”

“I know. Who’d figure that the paragons of all that’s good in the galaxy would have something like mind control in common with Loki.” She reached forward to power off the movie, only to be stopped by a toothpaste-covered toothbrush to the hand.

“No, you know what, fuck that! Fuck Loki, he is not taking Star Wars away from me.” He crossed the room, grabbed the remote from the table, and rewound the movie. He flopped himself back onto the couch, only to jump right back up, retrieve his toothbrush, and go back to the bathroom to finish brushing his teeth. Steve heard him spit then rinse the brush before tapping the brush on the edge of the sink. He stomped back into the room. “Okay, we’re going to get through these next thirty fucking seconds of cinematic awesomeness, and Steve, you’re going to hold my hand. And pet me. I want you to rub my head. It’s comforting and I need to be goddamned comforted right now.” It took a few moments, but after Nat and Steve held a quiet conversation involving mostly facial features, they resumed the movie. For a long while, Steve could ignore everything else but focusing on being there for his friend while he grieved.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be clear, Natasha's not necessarily TeamJarJar, nor is she not not-TeamJarJar. She's pro Clint, and if that means winding him up with some Gungan-ho Gungan-baiting, she'll do it.
> 
>  
> 
> If you have not read [ Space Voldemort vs Whiny Space Criminals](https://storify.com/gaileyfrey/sarah-sees-a-star-war), do yourself a favor and follow the link.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No beta. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I hope that your 2016 is filled with porny goodness.

==========

Steve continued not dealing with his own problems for a month, while Clint actually managed to shave his beard two days prior. The three of them, Steve, Clint, and Nat continued to share her bed, especially after the disastrous night Steve had tried to sleep in the guest room. He’d slipped so far down into the mate dream that his lips had turned blue. He’d been unable to wake from it until Natasha and Clint had covered him with every blanket in the house and then used their own body head to warm him. He’d moved down the hall permanently after that, and the mate dreams had gone back to the normal hand reaching towards a window (he was sure it was a window now). It wasn’t until this past week, almost a month since he’d flown to California, that the nightmares started.

At first, they were just dreams from the war, always culminating in Bucky’s drop from the train, but then they changed. The Howlies were replaced by the other Avengers, true, but it was always Nat punching out Hodge and unloading a clip at Steve’s shield, and it was Clint reciting his serial number on Zola’s table and dropping to his death from the train. Typically, Steve could wake from this dreams and let the weight of Clint and Nat press comfort in on him until Clint finally stirred and they could start their day, but this wasn’t a typical one.

It was his twenty-first birthday, and Bucky had awakened him as soon as the morning light filled their apartment, breakfast and coffee next to an envelope addressed to Steve on the table. When Steve had opened it up, it was to find a sketch of a birthday cake that Bucky had drawn, as well as an afternoon’s worth of tickets for Coney Island. And Bucky, for all that he could smooth talk not two but three girls into dancing with him at one time, had blushed when he’d confessed he’d been saving for two years for this day. Steve, who’d stopped bordering somewhere in the nebulous region of in true love and in romantic friendship sometime in the eighth grade, fell even harder for his friend than he’d ever thought possible. 

It was a memory, from before the war: Coney Island in 1939 and Steve's twenty-first birthday. By the time Steve'd downed that second hot dog and they'd boarded the Cyclone, he and Bucky were more than a little drunk. Oh, the surprise on that dame's face when she was taking a photo of them and Steve'd finally lost the battle with his stomach. Steve knew what was supposed to happen next, knew that the photographer would charge triple the price for the photo because Steve’d thrown up all over shoes, but Steve thought it was worth it because of the look on Bucky’s face, all happiness and free. Only in the dream, when Steve stood from his prone position, it was to find himself as he was now, in his USO get-up. The hand that was rubbing his back was Clint’s hand, as he’d been dressed that day in the range. Most damning of all though, when the photographer lowered the camera, it was Agent Coulson, blood staining his mouth and gaping wound through his heart.

Steve came to with his breath misting in the near-dark light of dawn. He felt Natasha shift, but neither she nor Clint woke. Bile coated his tongue, and as soon as he could trust himself to do so, he slipped out of the bed and put on his running gear. He’d headed straight for Izay Park, where he rain for two hours straight, not even sweating despite the long-sleeved tee he wore to hide his Mark. He couldn’t work up a sweat, but neither could he stop running. The dream was still with him, Coulson’s eyes still damning him with betrayal, but Steve focused not on it, but the photograph.

He’d carried that photo of Bucky and the vague blur that he knew as himself until the night of the Stark Expo, when he’d slipped it into Bucky’s pocket during the last hug they shared. _Did Bucky have it when he dropped?_

Stumbling outside of battle isn’t something Steve has done since his date with Vita-Rays, and he didn’t stumble then. Instead, he corrected his gait and slowed to a walk before sitting on a bench. It didn’t take a psych to tell Steve what his dream meant, and it sure as hell didn’t take one to tell Steve that he was swamped with survivor’s guilt over Bucky. The photo had been taken seventy-two years ago to the day, so it was either his twenty-seventh birthday, or his ninety-third, and that was enough to get his ass of the bench and moving again.

Another hour passed before Steve’s phone buzzed in his pocket with a text from Nat. _Time to go._ Confused, he looked around before spotting a shit-eating-grinning Clint leaning out of a S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued SUV. “Hey, can you tell me how to get to Expo Park? I’m looking for a fossil.” Steve walked to vehicle and clambered into the backseat.

“Hilarious, Clint. Tell the truth. How long did it take you to come up with that one?”

“Are you kidding, Cap, he’s been sitting on that one for at least a month now.” Nat pulled into traffic. Steve had yet to be in a car with Nat that she wasn’t driving. Clint said she had control issues, but Steve knew that Nat knew better than to let Clint behind the wheel of any moving vehicle outside of a mission. She was also the best driver to have when one needed to do a quick-change in the back.

Hunching behind the front seat, he quickly stripped out of his running gear, carefully navigating his shirt over his bandage. He found the S.H.I.E.L.D.-created body wipes that—while unable to completely remove that grimy-sweaty feeling that only a real shower could do—would work with Steve’s deodorant to get him mission-ready in no time at all. He pulled out the darkish jeans, red t-shirt, and blue sneakers. When he was re-dressed, he leaned back into the chair, surprised to find Clint spun around his seat to look at him.

“Jesus, Clint, were you watching me change?”

“You wish,” he replied, and before Steve could respond, the other man had plopped a hat on his head. “Your hair looks like shit.” Steve adjusted the hat, not bothering to look at it, and leaned further into the front, just in time to see Nat bypass the turn-off to Exposition Park and its underground S.H.I.E.L.D. facility.

“Wait, don’t we have a mission? Where are we going?” The two soul mates exchanged that look that meant they were up to something. It was Nat who answered.

“Change of plans, Captain.”

It was then that the stadium came into view and Steve pulled his hat off his head to find he had a replica Cooperstown Brooklyn Dodgers baseball cap. He ran his fingers over the brim and the embroidered _B_. He didn’t, couldn’t say anything, but by the time they were parked and out of the vehicle, Steve’s resettled the hat on his head and following the two people who’d somehow, in only a couple months’ time, become the most important people in the world.

Of course, it wasn’t just that they’d bought tickets for the July 4th game against the Cincinnati Reds. No, that would have been too simple. Instead, they were escorted straight into a reception area where Tony Stark and Pepper Potts, and the entire Dodgers starting line-up and coaching staff are waiting to sing happy birthday and pose for photos. It wasn’t Coney Island or the Cyclone, but there were hot dogs, and Steve got to watch from the press box as the Dodgers beat the Reds 4-1.

Afterwards, when the fireworks lit up the field, and everyone was quietly watching and celebrating America’s birthday, Steve sat in the dugout, the weird play of grief and happiness washing over him as he watched as Tony try to hit a baseball that Pepper threw his way; Nat was cat-calling from behind the plate each time the billionaire missed and she threw the ball back to Pepper on the mound. Clint, because he’s Clint and either he or Nat’s had eyes on him since they’d picked him up from the park, walked a beer to him. “Hey, Steve.”

“‘Steve,’ huh? I must be looking pretty rough then.”

“Meh, just looked like you could use a friend. Or a hotdog. It was a toss-up, really.”

“You know, I am feeling a little peckish, but I’m doing my best to keep this bench warm, so I’ll waive on the dogs.”

“I don’t know, Cap, that looks like a big job. Can I lend a hand? I have been known to warm a bench or two in my day.” In answer, Steve slid over, patting the seat behind him. Clint, because he can’t just _sit_ anywhere, sprawled out beside him, letting his head rest on Steve’s shoulder. “Good day, huh?” 

“Good birthday. Thanks for that.” They clinked their longnecks in toast.

“You know, Phil talked about taking you to your first ball game in the twenty-first century.”

“Yeah?”

“Hell yes. You should have seen him, debating on whether it should be the Mets, or the Dodgers, or the Yankees—yeah, no, Nat and I’d already talked him out of that one before…” He stopped and took another sip of beer. “Anyway, I think he’d’ve approved.”

“Bucky, he and I never did make it to a game for my birthday, but he’d have loved all this.” Steve laughed, surprising himself. “Hell, he’d tell you anything, short of being stuck with Jim Morita’s baked beans and poor ventilation, would have been better than my twenty-first.”

“What happened.”

“Coney Island, the Cyclone. Threw up everywhere.”

“Nice.”

“He was impressed. Said he never did see a shade of green and hotdog quite like that come out of a human body.”

“What were you—no, don’t tell me, cause then I’d throw up.”

“It’d carry on the tradition.”

“Or, and here’s a crazy idea, instead of vomit, we start a new tradition.” He lifted his head off of Steve’s shoulder and smiled at him, and it wasn’t the shit-eating grin of Clint into mischief, nor was it a self-deprecating grin in a grief-grown beard. This complete and total joy lighting up the other man’s face, and Steve’s heart sped up because it reminded him so much of Bucky right then. “Dammit, man, let’s get some ice cream!” He leapt from the bench, grabbed Steve’s hand, and dragged him back into the dugout, describing the best ice cream sundae he’d ever had when he was on an op in Milan.

* * *

He wanted to pound his fist into the tile of the bathroom, but Steve didn’t. It’d been a week since his birthday, and the sex dreams had started after he and Clint had returned to the apartment after ice cream. In reality, Clint had kissed Steve on the cheek, whispering “Happy Birthday” to him before passing out. In that first dream, Clint had kissed Steve on the mouth, on the jaw, on the pulse point, and all over his body before swallowing him down and bringing him to orgasm. That was the tame dream.

Steve looked down at his dick, his hard, won’t take no-for-an-answer dick. With a sigh, he pumped Clint's body wash into his hand and the hint of citrus overwhelmed Steve. He held his hand up to his face, and inhaled deeply, wanting the other man to be home from his meeting with Nick Fury his...Clint. Was Clint his? Was he Clint's? Could he still be Clint's when there were parts of his heart at the bottom of a ravine in Italy, and Clint's heart had died on the Hellicarrier at the end of a spear?

Ultimately, the answer was yes; he was Clint’s, and it didn’t matter if Clint was his because Steve would learn to be content as his friend, just as he’d been Bucky’s.

Steve pushed thoughts of infidelity in favor of warming the cold gel in his palms and slicking his cock up, not teasing, but not rough. Even, and just savoring the feel of the sure slip-slide across his hardness, good, yes, but so much better when he brought his other hand up to knead his sac.

When he was done and the citrus musk of clung to his skin, he stepped out of the shower. If he weren't so pissed, he might have been proud that he didn't startle at the sight of Nat sitting on the toilet lid.

"Boundaries, Romanov.” He snatched the towel out of her hand and patted himself dry. “And what the hell is it with you and bathrooms.”

”Hard for you to escape, and you’re not mad I caught you abusing yourself—”

"'Abusing myself'? I suppose next you’ll be telling me that I’ll go blind, kill kittens, or cause hair to grow on my palms.”

"No, you're mad because I have excellent hearing and no matter how loud the water or how quietly you whispered, I still heard you say his name." Steve hung the towel on its rack and stepped into their bedroom. Nat, although she hadn't moved from the toilet seat, didn't drop the matter. "Steve, I'm not trying to condemn you.”

“No, then what the are you doing?” Steve stepped into his underwear and scowled at her through the doorway.

“I’m saying not yet.”

“No.” He walked to the closet and pulled out some clean clothes. Nat moved to the bed.

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“There’s no not yet; there’s never.”

Steve hadn’t been looking for it, which meant she let him see the flash of anger cross her eyes.

“And why not? Because of your Mark? I didn’t look, by the way. I could have. Because of Phil? Because of Bucky? Because you’re afraid you’ve imprinted on him, or he’s imprinted on you because his dead lover worshiped you? What is it?”

“Yes! All of it, Nat, goddammit!” He clinched his hands into fists before sitting down beside her, utterly deflated. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. Jesus, I’m falling in love with one guy whose lover just died, I’ve got an incomplete Mark on my arm, and I lost the last guy I loved during World War II. This is fucked up.” Nat put her arm around him, drawing him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around her, clung to her.

“You have to go.”

“I know. I can’t. I promised.”

“Fury’s sending Clint to S.H.I.E.L.D. Academy to train some baby agents and science nerds. You and I are going to the Triskelion to work with S.T.R.I.K.E., you know, around.” Steve sat up.

“Did you - ”

“Arrange this? Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“I always take care of my boys.”

* * *

Less than three hours later, Steve and Natasha had packed up the apartment, gathering Clint’s stuff so he wouldn’t have to make an extra trip before they said goodbye in from of the T-Rex at the Natural History Museum. Steve was about to shoulder their duffel bags when Nat touched his arm. She was holding his bandage. 

“Might need this, Cap. I still haven’t looked.” Steve took the bandage from her, and was about to turn the other way so he could wrap it when he changed his mind. He held out the wrappings to her. 

“Would you do it for me?” 

She didn’t ask if he was sure. Instead, she lifted his shirt sleeve up to his shoulder, and for the first time since he’d noticed it was there, Steve let someone look at the red star. She paused before wrapping it, but anything she might have thought about its significance, she kept to herself. 

Steve was grateful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I stole Natasha's fossil line for reasons.


	6. Chapter 6

==========

"You know, that joke wasn't funny when Clint made it, and it's damn sure not any funnier now."

"Ouch. Captain America, not pulling any punches this morning.” She switched gears, weaving through the early morning DC commute.

“Not after the night I had."

“Dreams again?”

“Yeah.” He leaned back into the seat, crossing his arms and closing his eyes. It’d been over a year since he’d had a Mate dream, and even now, he was convinced that the only reason he’d had that one was because Clint had gotten his dumbass shot during a training op with his baby agents. The Mate dream had hit him at hour 34 of the 48 hours Clint had remained unconscious. Since then, nothing: why the hell were they back?

Nat slowed to a stop at a traffic light, and placed her hand on his thigh. They exchanged a look then, and Steve smiled before briefly squeezing the hand. "Missed you, Nat."

"Of course you did. I mean, have you met me?” The light turned green, and they broke contact.

"You do look familiar."

"Ass."

It was an old exchange at this point, but it still brought a smile to Nat's lips, and, more importantly, to her eyes. They drove in silence the rest of the way to the Triskelion, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Since they'd moved to D.C. and joined S.T.R.I.K.E., Nat and Steve had developed a comfortable partnership. Things were by no means perfect. Clint still hadn't fired an arrow, despite his repeated attempts, and Steve didn't feel comfortable acting on his feelings for the other man, not with an incomplete Mark, but with his dreams coming back, maybe it was time for Steve to take a more active approach in resolving...

He stopped Natasha from opening the car door. "Hey, Nat?"

"Steve?"

"Look, with Clint's break coming up and my dreams coming back, I think it's time. You know?"

She leaned across the console and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "We'll start looking after this mission."

"Thanks."

* * *

From the briefing, the mission felt off to Steve. Then, Nat went off book, and things turned into the blame game.

"Okay, that was on me."

Steve was so angry, the angriest he had been with her in over a year, that he wanted to give her the silent treatment, but his parting, "You're damn right it is," slipped out anyway.

* * *

Shit-shows like _The Lemurian Star_ followed with one of the most polite disagreements he'd ever had with Fury awakened a yearning for hand-rolled cigarettes and Dugan's tales of sexual conquests past while Gabe and Dernier exchanged dirty jokes in French in the background, so the Man With a Plan wasn't altogether surprised to find himself walking through the Smithsonian--the closest thing he had to the fellas right then--even if that hadn't been his plan. Nor had he planned on driving to Peggy just then, but that's where he was.

Some days, Steve felt a bit like Peggy's long-lost great-great nephew, a familiar enough intruder in her life to tell her stories of the times he'd missed out on during the ice: the ops she'd planned and pulled without him, the life that was hers and not his.

But other days--like today, when they could speak of Bucky, Howard, the Howlies, Peggy would rub her fingers, gnarled from her Walther PPK and knitting needles alike, across his mark--he was just skinny Steve, a kid from Brooklyn.

Steve's phone vibrated and, because he was still an agent and he still had a duty to answer when S.H.I.E.L.D. called, he pulled it out of his pocket. The number was unlisted, but trust Clint to find a way to send him a message when he was ostensibly incommunicado.

**lok shrty dont b dck to n. ORDERS**

Peggy cleared her throat. "Message from your young man?" Steve's face heated. "Oh, it must be. The last time you turned that red was when I'd caught you kissing that woman in London the same day I found that picture of Bucky in your compass. Do you remember?"

_Did he remem-_ "Peggy, you emptied a clip at me."

"Oh, I think you'll recall that I emptied it at your shield."

"That I was holding!"

"You were perfectly safe."

"I didn't know that!"

"I did, so I fail to see what the fuss - "

"'The fuss'?"

"Besides, I apologized, didn't I?"

"No, you damn well didn't."

"Gave you my picture, didn't I? Kept you from looking like a total prat every time you needed a compass and Bucky was around."

Petulance, thy name was Steven. "Yeah, well, apologies are usually made with words."

"Oh, I am so sorry."

"No, you're not."

"You're right. I'm not." She leaned over to retrieve her reading glasses from the table. "Now hand me that damn thing so I can see what's got your knickers in a twist." If this had been the version of Peggy that resembled a favorite widowed aunt, Steve might have deflected, but this woman was the Agent Carter whose arm he'd patched up while she called him a "fucking wanker who couldn't throw a suture to save his own cock from falling off." She handed the phone back. "What is it?"

Steve let himself drop further into his seat. "What is it always?" He looked at the screen. "Used to be, I knew who the bad guys were, knew my team, and now? Team's keeping secrets from me, and I can't see all the angles." 

"Ah, Nick and his compartmentalizing." Steve didn't answer her because she wasn't asking a question. She tapped a finger to the phone again. "I take it that your Clint's soulmate was in the know, and you weren't."

"Yeah. Orders."

"My god, you're always so dramatic."

He joined in her laughter. "You're not wrong about that. What can I say? I'm completely useless without you and Bucky to keep me in line."

"Steven Grant Rogers, it's more than past the time you learned how to talk to women."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Now, sit up straight, soldier. That's better. Are you actually mad at Agent Romanov?"

Steve didn't even have to think about his answer, because he really wasn't. "No, ma'am."

"Then, I suggest you apologize to your friend."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And, if Barton is to be believed, you apologize with a new pair of shoes for being a dick." Agent Carter or no, it was still mildly uncomfortable for Steve to hear her say "dick," and judging from the wicked smirk on her face that made her look like the red-lipsticked dame he'd met all those years ago, she knew it too. "Tell me, why is it that he's calling you, uh, - "

"Shorty?"

"Yes, shor -" A coughing fit interrupted her, and Steve, who twisted to get her a drink of water, would have loved to tell her about how his old life and his new life meshed together when Clint, after Steve told him Princess Leia and Luke meeting on the Death Star reminded him of when he rescued Bucky, had dubbed him "Shorty," refusing to call Steve anything else for three days straight. But, after the coughing had cleared and the look in Peggy's eyes was one of confusion and delight, Steve could only hold her hand until the nurse came in to administer Peggy's medications.

* * *

Sam couldn't have known it, but he'd been to D.C.'s DVA on more than one occasion. Well, to e fair, he'd been to the parking lot of the DVA on more than one occasion, usually when neither Clint nor Nat was available, and the Mate dreams and train dreams had become too much, but until he'd met Wilson, he'd never made it past killing the engine of his bike. True, there was still that niggling voice in the back of his mind that told him the only reason he was there now because he was running away from home for a little while longer.

It wasn't pique that had him pull his phone out and send a text to Natasha.

_I'm a dick._

He pursed his lips together, then fired off another message to her.

_It was orders._

He didn't wait for a response, knowing full well that Natasha would message him when she damn well felt like it. After pocketing his phone, he secured his bike and headed into the building. 

He stopped at the front desk, and the girl's smile turned from professional and placating to one of surprise and awe. Steve ran his hand through his hair, giving his best "Aw shucks, I'm the King of Schmucks" half-smile (Clint's name for it, but Steve suspected Nat had a hand in the christening). "Hi, uh, Melissa?" She nodded her head and made a vague flapping motion to her name badge. "I wonder if you could help me. I'm looking for my good friend, Sam Wilson. Do you know - "

"You know Sammy-toes?"

_Sammy-toes?_ "Sure do. He's a swell guy, one of the nicest fellas I know."

He watched something cross her eyes before she responded. "He really is isn't he?" She pointed down the hall. "He's leading group right now, up there, last door on the left."

"Thanks, Melissa." He started down the hall, but stopped when she called out.

"Captain?"

"Steve's fine. Any friend of Sam, and all." 

"Oh, uh, Steve. Could you give this to Sam for me?" She handed a slip of paper to him, and Steve couldn't help the mental fist-bump he gave himself when he read her message: _Sammy-toes! Coffee Saturday? My treat?_ Underneath, she'd drawn a little heart between her name and phone number.

"You bet."

She beamed at him, her "thanks" a breathless huff of air as she sat back at her desk, presumably to work, but more likely, Steve thought, to text a friend about her meeting Captain America and making a date with Sam.

Steve was still riding the high of good wingmanship, but it was truly short lived as he caught the tail-end of the woman's story about mistaking a plastic bag for an IED. Listening to Sam and looking at the rest of the group made something tighten and loosen in his chest simultaneously. Tightened because he could hear the shredded embarrassment in the woman's voice and feel the same shame she must have felt when she tried to convince the police officer that she was not drunk. Loosened because these were people who wouldn't feed him the bullshit "I can't imagine what that must have been like" lines that never helped, no matter the sentiment and sincerity behind them. Instead, he could have the safety of sitting and, well, not talking, but at least existing, living, and being in the moment with these people might be okay.

"Hey! Running Man! Glad you came. Did you get to hear any of the shares?"

"Yeah, I did. Intense."

"Some days it is. We've all got it. Guilt. Regret. Just survive sometimes."

"Who'd you lose?"

"Riley. Standard PJ rescue op gone to shit and his dumbass RPG'd out of the sky."

"Sorry. Was he your - "

"No, thank god for that. Got out right after that, though, and found this place, finishing up my degree."

"Happy now?"

"Oh, yeah. Zero assholes giving me orders. It's nice. What about you? Tired of taking orders?"

Steve exhaled. That was the question of the day. "Dunno. Maybe? Yes? I mean, what would I do?"

"Ultimate fighting? Modeling? Strong-man competitions? Rescuing kittens from trees? Man, do what makes you happy, you know? What makes you happy?"

_Clint._ "I don't really know yet, but maybe I've got a future as a delivery boy." He pulls out the slip of paper and hands it to Sam. "This is for you, Sammy-toes."

After Sam let out a whoop and clapped Steve on the back, it wasn't like it was a hard decision to to agree to celebratory beers and burgers. Sam's elation was contagious, and the conversation easy. It wasn't until about an hour into their meal that Steve realized fully the dangers of befriending a psychology major who practiced on recalcitrant soldiers suffering from PTSD. At that point, though, Sam was already telling him about the time Riley had found a snake in his lucky boxers the night he had his first date with his soul mate, and Steve had followed up with a story of Clint bringing home a kitten one of the baby agents had stuffed in his overcoat pocket when Clint hadn't been looking. Clint couldn't keep the cat, but he made sure that Nick Furry had found a good home.

When the bill was settled and the two of them were walking out of the bar, Sam, bright smile flashing on shit-eating, grabbed Steve's arm. "You know, Cap, you lied to me earlier."

"About?"

"You know exactly what makes you happy." Steve merely resettled his jacket, keeping his mouth closed on the matter, but he lifted his eyebrow at Sam, letting expectation show on his face. "Man, in the past two hours, you've mentioned exactly two people in every single story you've told, and I mean every single one. I mention constricting costumes, and instead of getting a juicy story about the USO girls you travelled with, you tell me about Clint Barton's circus days and the most inappropriate erection story involving spandex I never ever wanted to hear in my life."

"Yeah. I know."

"And?"

"Nothing. It's complicated." Steve resisted the urge to scratch at his Mark.

Sam fixed a shrewd eye on Steve, and it was like the man knew exactly what it was Steve was trying to hide. "Okay, here's my two-bits, and that's it. Don't make this another thing that keeps you awake on your marshmallow mattress."

* * *

Two hours later, Steve was hiding a S.H.I.E.L.D. jump drive in a vending machine, Nick Fury was dead, and the man responsible bore a red star on his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've used some CA:TWS dialogue, but I hate blatantly reproducing canon, so I've played with the words while, hopefully, merging the original spirit of the story with that of fic.


	7. Chapter 7

Nat slept peacefully beside him, tired out after an afternoon full of running from STRIKE and then giving Steve shit for his kissing skills. It had been a token protest at best, and they both had known it, but Steve still had let Natasha argue with him about which of them should drive first and which of them should sleep. And, really, Steve probably _should_ sleep at some point before they crossed into Jersey, but after the past eighteen hours, there was no way in any damn hell that he was going to close his eyes, not now that the Winter Soldier was--

_"You know, Steve, I can hear you think from all the way on the other side of the continent. And, Jesus, babe, watch the fucking road."_

Steve righted the truck at the same time he yelled, "Clint? What the hell?" He stole a glance to where Nat was sitting, smirk fixed in place as she held her pone in her palm, Clint's picture on the screen and speaker phone activated. Steve wasn't even fully aware he was going to pull over until he'd already driven over the rumble strip, thrown the trunk into park, and run thirty feet from it was Nat's pone pressed to his ear. "God, Clint, where the hell are you?"

"Close."

"Thank god. Just - " Steve's voice gave out and he was as close to crying as he'd been in a long damn time. He stayed quiet, breathing heavily, and just listened to the sound of Clint doing the same. Focusing on their breaths, he counted them, let his synch with Clint's, until the number hit fifty and Steve no longer felt as though he was going to break into a thousand pieces just to get away from a reality where the Winter Soldier was his soul mate.

"Damn. That's. Well."

Steve opened his eyes. "Said that out loud, huh?"

"Sure did, babe, sure did."

"Well? You don't got anything to say about that?"

"Dude, my soul mate is the fucking Black Widow. Pretty sure we could for a club."

"Oh, yeah. Do I get to be the president? Or do - "

"Oh, hell no, man. I'm the president, and you're the PR guy."

"PR guy?"

"Shut up. It's a thing. Oh, hang on - " Clint must have covered the phone and pitched his voice low, because even with his super-soldier hearing, Steve could only just make out that Clint was telling someone--a woman?--that he was on his way. "Look, babe, I gotta go, but I swear that I'm no my way. And, I promise you, we'll get through this shit, and I'll even promote you to PR guy _and_ t-shirt guy."

"T-shirt guy?"

" Hello? Club'll need a logo."

"Of course. How silly of me."

"You're forgiven. And, Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"The real reason I called was - Look, pushy," and, oh, there was no need for super-soldier hearing for this shouting, "I told you I was on my way, and I amQ. Jesuit, it's not like I'm trying to tell a guy that I'm stupid in love with him or anything! Oh, wait! I fucking was! Go away! Now, were was I?" The last part was in a more sedate version of Clint's easy baritone. Steve had a hard time swallowing down the lump in his throat so he could snark back."

"I, uh, think you were telling me that you love me."

"Was I?"

"Yes."

"I was."

"And?"

"'And,' what do you earn 'and'? I just yelled at, well, it doesn't matter who I yelled at, except for, you know my balls are probably in danger now because, you know, yelling at a superior...and...and-and-and what? I should be anding you! Man pours his heart out to...someone...and you can't even - "

"Clint?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up."

"Good idea."

"I love you."

Silence met his ears before Clint inhaled and said "I love you" on the exhale, then, "24 hours, less than, and then you and I are going to talk. Okay, so, we're actually going to make out, like, a lot, and I'm gonna wanna get your cock in my mouth, and - "

Steve groaned (but didn't palm his dick at the visual image, thank you very much) then ordered, "Clint, get your ass on the damn quinjet, jet ski, or fucking moped and get your ass here."

"Sir, yes, sir. And, sir? I love you."

"I know." Clint snorted--Steve could just see him shaking his head at the _Star Wars_ reference--and rung off. Steve stared at the phone, thumbing through Nat's call log just to see Clint's goofy face one more time before rising to his feet and heading back to the truck. Unsurprisingly, Nat's sitting at the wheel. Steve slid into the passenger seat, handed her the phone and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "Thanks." She flashed him the classic Nat smirk that Steve had learned meant she was feeling equal parts Smaug and fond. It was a good look for her, and with her in the driver's seat for awhile and Clint's declaration warming his heart, Steve wasn't so much afraid of falling asleep and finding his soul mate's masked stare appearing in the blue mist.

Not anymore. 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to break up the original iteration of this chapter into two. The next chapter should be up before my spring break is over.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read! I appreciate every hit, bookmark, subscription, and kudo!
> 
> I've had more than a couple glasses of wine, so the formatting and betaing are probably like whoa.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit rough, but I really wanted to post this one before my break ended, and, really, I could have combined the last chapter with this one, but meh.

It was just past nightfall when they finally walked up to the gates of Camp LeHigh and the hour or so sleep he'd had in the truck had done wonders for him, especially sans dreams, which saw Steve ready for action. Even the shield, lately heavy at his back and on his arm, was just another extension of his body now, as though, here, back where it all began, the sense of right had him walking a little bit taller.

"Hey, Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"Might want to check your fly, stud. Your patriotism is showing." Steve, who'd already gone for his zip, rolled his eyes at Nat before continuing to lead them through the munitions store. "Oh, come on, Cap! That one was good and you know it." Steve grunted. "Well, that wasn't a no, so I guess..."

"Yeah, yeah. It was funny. Slightly."

"It was, wasn't it."

Nat was quiet after that, for which Steve was grateful, because for all that the camp had changed, there was still so much of the same regulation gunpowder, sweat, and all-the-boiled-potatoes-you-could-eat smell of 1942. He closed his eyes and inhaled it in, and when he opened his eyes again, he was surprised to find himself over 6' and 200lbs, instead of 5' and 90lbs. Nat had stopped looking for clues as to why the building had moved past its regulation distance and asked, "Is this the part where you point out all the places where Hodgins beat you up? Maybe he pantsed you in that corner over there? No?"

"Yeah, no, you don't get the 'Steve Rogers's got his ass handed to him there, there, and there' tour this time, Missy. This ain't a first date for us."

"Aw, but, Clint told me how much fun his NY tour of your greatest hit was."

"I'm sure he did. Now, keep sharp. This whole set-up feels more and more like a trap, and there's no way Clint'll let us live it down if we die in Jersey. He'd find a way to haunt us, and we'd be the dead ones."

"Steve, do you really think that, after Coulson, Clint could or would survive our deaths, Jersey or otherwise?"

Steve adjusted his hold on the shield at that, and they systematically moved through the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s birthplace, looking at the heart and mind of the organization until they're standing in its bowels.

And, oh, Steve sorely wanted to follow Nat's _War Games_ reference with his own from _The Matrix_ when its voice sounds, and Steve's never felt smaller and more helpless in his life as truths he had reconciled himself to over the past two years. "Invited?"

Nat's hand, that had found its way into Steve's own during Zola's speech, tightened. "Operation: Paperclip...he was - "

"Correct, fraulein. And so you see, Captain, Hydra was allowed to continue, to multiply, and shape this century in secret. Too useful to your beloved S.H.I.E.L.D. Had I become, so that when my body failed, my mind was saved. 200,000 square feet of data banks."

Steve felt bile threatening to rise as the past seventy years of history flashed across the screen, that coupled with the growing sense of dread that he and Natasha were in danger. "And all of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s secrets belong to you, is that it?" And, goddammit, this had to stop; he and Nat had to get out of the bunker, because Zola was stalling.

"Another correction." Steve was about to lend his mind to the complicated problem of finding out the secrets of the drive, and to get the fuck out of there without springing whatever trap Zola had planned for them, but Zola's screen suddenly flashed to video footage of Steve lying on a hospital bed, warming blankets covering his legs, torso, and chest. His left arm was bared to the camera, the hand holding the sheet was a man's and there was a wide silver ring that Steve had seen earlier that day on Pierce's hand. Steve's Mark was in plain view, and then the image transitioned to another red star on a metal arm, the camera panning over the Winter Soldier's bare chest, a large white star spanning its breadth in much the same way Steve's uniform star did. The camera began moving upward, and it was Steve's turn to tighten his hand hold as his soulmate's throat then chin came into view. The screen went black. "All of your secrets, Captain. I am curious, Captain, how does it feel to know that your other half helped to alter history when history refused to cooperate? To know that, while Hydra spent seventy years feeding crises and driving the world to its own destruction, your death, the sacrifices you have made, your life reborn has been rendered obsolete. A zero su - " 

Nat's thumb brushed across Steve's hand, allowing Steve the opportunity to ground himself through her strength and, by extension, Clint's strength, and he brought himself back to the mission. "Cut the crap, Zola, what's on the drive?" 

"I suppose it would be too much to ask for a loud-mouthed American to be anything but rude, but I do wonder, Captain, if offered with a choice before we die, which would you choose to know the contents of the drive, or the true identify of the one whose Mark you bear on your arm."

"Steve?" Nat had her phone out, frantically typing on it. "We've got company. Bogeys."

"Judging by the time, must be S.H.I.E.L.D." He held her gaze for a moment, catching her nod, before turning to Zola's screen. "Drive, Zola, what is it?"

"Hmm...how disappointing. I was hoping you'd choose the name. It would bring some amusement to me in our final moments together. Very well, Captain, I shall tell you."

At this point, Steve zoned out Zola's voice. Whatever techno-babble he had, Nat would be more apt to parse out its meaning. Steve prepped his body and mind to the task of saving their lives, and just as Natasha's phone began to beep frantically. "Nat?"

"Got it!" She grabbed the drive just as Steve prized the trapdoor open. It wasn't the closest Steve'd ever had, but it was a damn near thing.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

===========

The splash of water on his face certainly helped, but what Steve really needed was a stretch of four hours when he could just crash the hell out on a bed--hell, a floor would be nice--and just have a coma, let his body recharge. He wiped his face off with the hand towel and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. He could have left the Mark unwrapped; Nat had already seen it, after all. But, Sam? Well... Steve wasn't quite ready for that conversation.

He caught movement in the mirror just as he fastened the wrap in place, and his eyes focused on Nat, who was drying her hair. Steve could only recall seeing that expression on her face one time, when Clint was still just Agent Barton to him, the sad fuck under Loki's control, and Nat had been noting more than a name in a file, an ally and teammate, true, but not a friend, sister.

"Nat, what's going on?" Present, still, was the lost look in her eyes, but the catch he'd expected to hear in her voice was not.

"We were in Zurich, when Clint was sent to kill me. It was winter, and this dumb-ass sniper had been in a nest for nearly thirty-six hours straight. Sitwell was the patsy. You know he always makes a good...well. Anyway, there's feedback coming through Sitwell's earwig, and he unloads a stream of swear words in at least four different languages, including ASL, and I hear him finally yell, 'Barton, you fucking lunatic, what the hell are you doing!' That's when an arrow embedded into the building, Clint starts zip-lining from his nest. I grabbed Sitwell and already had a knife to his throat when Clint falls to the ground, says, 'Aw, knees, no,' and then hops up and says, 'Look, Nat...Wait, can I call you Nat? I feel like you're a Nat and not a Tasha. I mean not a gnat, like buzz-buzz, I'm a goddamn annoying bug, but, you know, Nat, Clint Barton's soul mate.'" She stopped talking for a minute, lets the half smile on her face bloom briefly into a full one. "I don't know who was most surprised, Barton, Sitwell, or me. The next thing I knew, Clint was putting his cold as hell fingers on my Mark and, well, you know." She gestured to the purple target on her neck. Steve looked at its vibrancy, the purple on the rings and the barest hint of red on the black widow she had tattooed on there when she'd added Coulson's quill. He knew that the bite of the tattoo artist's needles had probably hurt when the spider and quill had been added, but Steve had never heard the story of when the two Mates had made contact for the first time. Truthfully, until this moment, he'd never thought about it; Blanks didn't have a completed bond to look forward to, after all. He sucked in a breath to ask her, but Nat, already two steps ahead of him, leaned forward to rest her hand on his Mark. He was almost disappointed that there wasn't a zing of electricity at her touch. "It's different for everyone, Steve, for every bond. Some feel warmth, some smell rain, and some hear angels singing. For us, I felt like I was dancing _Swan Lake_ , Clint sitting on the front row with a bouquet of red and purple flowers. I knew that Clint was going to keep me safe for the rest of my life, just as I would do for him. He is my brother and my soul, and I was ready to go wherever he would take me, so he took me to S.H.I.E.L.D., to Coulson. I thought..." Steve heard the tears in her voice more than he saw them on her face. He pulled her into his arms. His lips brushed across her forehead. "I thought I was going straight, Steve, that Coulson, Clint and I were doing the right thing with S.H.I.E.L.D. But now?"

"I know. Now."

"I wish Clint would hurry his ass up."

"You and me both. Thank God for Sam Wilson."

"Did I hear my na - whoa! Didn't mean to interrupt something. Just, you know, breakfast is ready." Nat pulled out of Steve's hold and resumed her hair-drying. Steve stood and stretched, the smell of eggs and hash browns calling to his depleted fuel supplies. Sam spoke again, "You know, I have a hairdryer, and a, uh, what do you call it? Not a waffle iron." Nat looked up.

"A flat iron?"

"That's it!"

. Nat's eyes met Steve's, and a slow-warm smile lit her face.

"Thank God for Sam Wilson."

* * *

Steve looked at the river, but he was seeing a death-drop in the snow-covered Alps; he was hearing Bucky's screams a he fell, louder than the train running its track. Super-imposed over this is the Bucky ( _"Who the hell is Bucky?"_ ) of today. He closed his eyes, even though that did little to help. He heard the door to the bunker open then close. He didn't have to open his eyes to know that it was Sam. "I know what you're gonna say."

"Yeah? And what's that?"

"He's gonna be there, Sam; you think I don't know that?"

"Oh, I know you know that, but what I don't think you know is this: that man, the Bucky you knew, the one you - "

"Dropped?" He spun to face Sam, eyes opened now, and just managed to keep his hands shoved in his pockets. "You mean the one I killed?"

"Loved. I was gonna say that Bucky you loved, he ain't there anymore. Whoever or whatever he was back in the '40s? Gone. This one now, this Winter Soldier? He's not the kind you save. You stop him." Steve breathed through his nose, let it take the anger he felt with it. He closed his eyes again, went back to 1936. _To the end of the line._

"Yeah, I can't do that."

"Man, he doesn't even know you."

"Who the hell is this joker?" Steve spun to see Clint, the one who knew him best in this lifetime, make his way to where Steve stood next to Sam.

"Sam Wilson, and who the fuck are you?"

"Clint, Sam, this is Clint Barton." Steve still hadn't taken his eyes off Clint, even though there was now less than a foot between them. Sam, because he was still Sam Wilson and one of the best people Steve knew, offered his hand for Clint to shake, which the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent did.

However, rather than exchange the usual pleasantries, Clint just held onto the other man's hand, and said, "He will."

"Oh, and you know that, do you?" Steve noted the tightness in Sam's voice, and was unsurprised that Sam was squeezing Clint's hand just a little bit too hard, and vice versa.

"I do, and so does Steve. Go on. Show him, Steve." Steve knew what he meant for him to do, but damned if he was going watch this macho dick-measuring contest go on any longer, so he not so carefully flung his jacket off, thereby dislodging the most awkward handshake Steve had experienced outside of meeting Tony Stark the first time, and ripped the bandage from his arm so that Sam could see his Mark. It was more than a touch satisfying at the look of shock on the man's face.

"Shit. Well, that changes, well, fucking everything." He spun on his heel, leaving Steve feeling like a dumb ass with his arm held at such an awkward angle.

"Sam? Where are you going?" 

"To gear up, Captain! I suggest you do the same!"

_Thank God for Sam Wilson._ Steve turned to tell Clint just that, only Clint's downcast face and slumped shoulders stopped him. "Clint?" He stepped closer to the shorter man and pulled him into his arms, breathing in the smell of leather, citrus, and bow rosin (despite the fact that it had been two years since he'd last used his bow), all the scents that Steve associates with Clint and home. He put his lips on Clint's. The other man tensed, and Steve pulled back to look in his eyes. There was anguish there, and Steve saw it all in the briefest instant that Clint returned his gaze before latching onto the Mark that was still bared. Steve slapped his hand over it, realizing that this was the first time Clint had ever seen the red star. Steve sucked in a breath as Clint's fingers traced each point of the star. There was a shiver that ran through Steve's body at the contact, lighting his nerves on fire with everything Steve felt for this man, and Steve's breath came up short as he realized that Clint was letting him, _them_ go, and had actually physically released his hold on him now. Steve grabbed his hand, preventing him from going any farther away. "Clint, you're an idiot."

"Yeah?" Clint's voice was watery, there was no dyeing that, and Steve needed to fix that and fast.

"You're my idiot, though, so come here." He jerked Clint back into his embrace, this time pulling the other man into a heated kiss, with tongues and teeth, that Steve was pretty sure even Tony Stark would be embarrassed to witness, not that Steve particularly cared who witnessed this moments where Captain America absolutely took Hawkeye apart. His hands were already down Clint's pants when the other man seemed to catch onto Steve's plan.

"Steve, Steve... You do know that it's broad daylight and - "

"Yeah, yeah, I know, someone could come out any moment and see my patriotism sowing, but goddammit, Clint, I love you, and it doesn't matter that Bucky's alive... Well, I mean, it does matter, but his coming back _doesn't_ keep me from loving you. I've never stopped loving him even as I was falling in love with you. And, hell, if Phil were here, would it stop you from - " Clint's hold on Steve's arms tightened.

"No, Steve, God, no, you -"

"Then how is it that when my soul mate was _just_ the Winter Soldier you were with me every step of the way, but now that it's Bucky you're just giving up on us? Clint, I'm not - " It was Clint who initiated the kiss this time, and Steve backed the man into the railing as for the first time since Clint walked onto the dam that the archer was truly here with him. Clint's back met the lichen and moss covered concrete, he grunted out and broke their kiss. There was no pain on his face, just the smirk that Steve knew meant this man was both pleased with life and inordinately happy to share that happiness with everyone around him. "What are you so happy about?"

"I'm an idiot."

"Yep," Steve huffed out a laugh, "it's what Nat and I've been trying to tell you for years." 

"I'm your idiot, though. Right?"

"God, yes, now, if you'll just..." He didn't finish his statement, foregoing words for action as he pulled Clint into another heated kiss, returning to the task of undoing the man's pants so that he could...

"Oh, fuck, Steve!" Most of Clint's words were lost against the press of his lips on Steve's, but Steve understood the gist of it, and he couldn't control the grin that took over his face as he opted to rest his forehead on Clint's shoulder as he jerked the man off, watching his hand as he worked Clint's shaft, thumbing over the slit on every pass or so, and feeling his own cock harden at the sight of pre-ejaculate pool at its tip. He licked his lips, longing for a taste of the other man, and then he dropped to his knees, because he could have this, could have his mouth full of this man's cock. "Shit, seriously, are you fu-fucking trying to kill me!" Clint's hands landed in Steve's hair, thereby driving his cock further into Steve's mouth, and Steve could do nothing more than to drop his jaw further, taking in the girth as he encouraged Clint to thrust his hips. The tip of Clint's dick tipped the back of Steve's throat, and Steve pulled deep inhalations of the scent coming from the thatch of hair at the base. He felt his own cock pulse with need and wrestled a hand down to his zip to free his cock and tip himself over the edge into orgasm. Clint must have noticed that Steve had stopped sucking him off because he relaxed his hold on Steve's head and instead caressed a cheek. When Steve's vision cleared from sheer whiteness, he opened his eyes to lock onto Clint's. There was that smirk again, and Steve responded to it by latching both hands a to Clint's hips and hollowing his cheeks out. Clint's head snapped back and he groaned and swore as he filled Steve's mouth and throat with come, Steve swallowing it down without a bit spilling out.

When they were both breathing normally again, slouched against the wall, Steve let himself remember Project Insight, HYDRA, and Bucky again. As though Clint noticed the change that came over him, he elbowed Steve and said, "Come on, then, Steve, you heard the man." He stood to his feet, albeit slowly, and stuffed himself back into his pants before holding a hand out to Steve, who let himself be pulled to his feet. Steve'd immediately started to set his own clothing to rights, zipping his pants and pulling his jacket and shirt back over his arm, when Clint's hand stopped him, taking over for him. It was a novel experience, having someone treat his penis with such reverence, even weirder when Clint bent down and kissed its still-sensitive tip. Clint was laughing as he zipped Steve's pants, but he pulled Steve into another filthy kiss before Steve had the chance to comment. Just as Steve's dick had started to edge back into the land of fully erect and ready to go, Clint broke the kiss and smiled at Steve one more time before sauntering back the way he'd come. Steve caught himself watching the man's ass before he picked back up on what Clint said.

"Wait! Clint! What man? Where are we going?"

"To get you a suit. If we're gonna fight a war, you're gonna need a uniform!"

Neither of them picked up the abandoned wrap on the ground.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So not beta'd. If you're looking for something to do, I know someone (it's me) who's looking for a beta.


End file.
